


Lifelines

by FloraStuart



Category: White Collar
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-23
Updated: 2013-01-23
Packaged: 2017-11-26 13:57:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/651211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FloraStuart/pseuds/FloraStuart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Diana is all right, or she will be. She has to be because no one else is, tonight. Tag for 2.09 "Point Blank".</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lifelines

**Author's Note:**

  * For [frith_in_thorns](https://archiveofourown.org/users/frith_in_thorns/gifts).



> Written for frith_in_thorns for fandom_stocking. Spoilers through 2.09.

“I have had the day from hell.”

Christie’s voice is sharp and frayed; she picks up on the second ring and doesn’t bother with a greeting. Diana leans back against the wall, shuts her eyes briefly, and thinks it’s the most beautiful thing she’s ever heard.

“I’m not even supposed to be on tonight,” Christie says, and Diana thinks she should focus, she should search for words of sympathy or commiseration but instead she lets the sound wash over her. “I told Dr. Thompson I’d trade with him. I didn’t say I’d cover Alice’s shift, too.”

Diana tries to blink away fatigue scraping like sand in her eyes. For a moment she can let herself imagine Christie is in the break room off the ER downstairs, instead of at a completely different hospital halfway across town.

The lounge is quiet save for the faint hum of vending machines in the corner, the soft murmur of Peter’s voice and the occasional irregular squeak of the night nurse’s shoes on white linoleum. The floors are clean and polished and too bright. 

Diana’s free hand still twitches, adrenaline buzzing tense and shaky just beneath her skin.

“I’m on break and a good thing, too,” Christie goes on. “I was about ready to start screaming, I swear.”

Diana makes some noise vaguely approximating _I’m listening_ , but the words fade in and out. She’s still keyed up on high alert. But it’s the sound of Christie’s voice that matters.

It’s been six hours.

The intercoms are silent. The OR is out of sight, further down the hall past a row of closed doors along the quiet ward. The night nurse said someone will come find them when there’s any news.

At some point she and Peter shifted by unconscious mutual need into guard positions, each of them covering one of the two hallways leading into the lounge. They’ve long since given up trying to get Neal to sit down, to rest, to eat something. 

He accepted a cup of coffee a few hours ago; he gulped half of it and spilled the rest, his eyes drifting past her when he looked up, shocky and huge and not tracking at all.

Now he stands facing the blank wall, unnaturally still; she and Peter can guard the hallways all night but they can’t reach him.

“And I came in half an hour early,” Christie is saying. “And he’s screaming at me, where have you been, all because he forgot to look at the damn schedule which clearly says I’m on late shift tonight and does he apologize?” 

Outside the sun has set, the city shifting from day to night while they’re cut off in a suspended bubble. Waiting. In here the lights are harsh and steady, white walls without windows, only a single framed painting of a seashell hung beside that round hard clock face.

Christie is working up to a crescendo. “Does he say anything? He says well you’d better get ready ‘cause we’re short-handed tonight. And it’s only gotten worse from there. I swear even Alice says he’s worse than usual, tonight, and I should have you come down here and bust some heads.”

The clock on the wall reads five minutes to midnight. Her father is in Bahrain; in a few hours he’ll be awake. 

(He knows some people at the Russian embassy; he’s got more than a few favors he can call in.)

On this side of the Atlantic the day isn’t over, and Diana is afraid to wonder what it might yet have left to throw at them.

When Christie finally runs out of steam, she stops to take a breath and Diana says the first thing that comes into her mind: “I love you.”

Diana was there one night when a patient knocked Christie down and pulled a knife. She’d been picking Christie up at the end of her shift; she’d seen the whole thing and reacted before she could think. She saw the knife and the next thing she knew she had the guy pinned to the floor.

She hears silence, now, on the other end, and a long breath released as whatever new tirade Christie was about to launch is cut off. Her tone is completely different, quietly concerned. “Di?”

The guy was drunk, she remembers, and hadn’t offered much resistance once she disarmed him. It was nothing impressive; she’d reacted the way she was trained. Still it had drawn attention. It’s been a running joke over in that ER ever since: _don’t mess with Christie or Diana will kill you_.

(It was never really all that funny.)

She wants to say _I’m fine everything’s all right_. She hears the question in her name, Christie’s own frustration forgotten in an instant at something that showed through in Diana’s voice. She wants to say _keep talking I just need to hear you_. Because Christie ranting about the various frustrating patients and difficult doctors and clueless residents she has to deal with is so refreshingly _normal_ and this is what she needs right now; it’s a line and an anchor, holding her. She wants to say _go on I didn’t mean to interrupt_.

Instead, after a beat of concerned silence from the other end, she says, “I held a gun on a friend today.”

She has a sudden flash of memory, bright and sharp: sitting beside a black marble fountain in some hotel lobby in eastern Europe somewhere, trailing her hand in the water to catch sparks of light reflecting from the giant glass chandelier and telling Charlie she wanted to be a cop when she grew up.

Another pause, shorter this time, and Christie says, “Where are you?”

She didn’t want to be a diplomat, she told Charlie; she wanted to be like him. _Because when you’re a cop you always know who the bad guys are_.

“I’m at Lenox Hill. I might not be home for a while, the little guy’s gonna be in surgery for -”

Six hours and no news. She trails off and can’t finish.

“You _shot Mozzie?_ ”

She doesn’t even _like_ the little guy. He’s obnoxious and stubborn and he makes no sense half the time and - 

She’s shaking her head before she realizes Christie can’t see her. “No. No, that was a different -” She lets out a shaky breath. “Oh God, Christie, it’s been a hell of a day.”

Charlie didn’t laugh at her. She remembers that, though even then she could tell it was an effort.

She misses Charlie now with a fierce ache she hasn’t felt in years. All she ever wanted was to be like him; she went into this job to protect people, and today she came _this close_ to shooting a friend to protect a man like Fowler and she can’t think about that right now because this day still isn’t over yet and -

“Listen,” Christie is saying. “I can call Sam to come in and cover the rest of my shift. I’ll take a cab. I can be there in half an hour -”

Diana looks up and her eyes meet Peter’s across the room; he’s standing against the opposite wall with his own phone against his ear, looking as tense and wrung out as she feels. His eyes hold hers only briefly before sliding away toward Neal.

“No.” She shakes her head again. “No, you don’t need to come over here. I’m all right.”

“You don’t sound all right.”

But she is, or she will be. She has to be because no one else is, tonight. Peter is a wreck; he looks like he’s aged ten years in the last twelve hours, and Neal is - 

Neal is hardly aware of either of them. She can still hear his voice, a raw scream calling Mozzie’s name at that park. They’d had to cuff him again to get him in the car; he wouldn’t stop fighting to get to Mozzie, he didn’t hear Peter’s voice, _you can’t help him_ and _they’re taking him to the hospital_ and _let the paramedics do their job_.

When they got to the hospital Neal was quiet; he said nothing as the night nurse explained what they knew, which wasn’t much; Diana wasn’t sure he heard any of it but when she ended with _we’re doing everything we can_ Neal said _thank you_ , soft and broken and heartfelt and then he turned away and would have walked into a wall if Diana hadn’t stopped him.

“Finish your shift,” she tells Christie. “And then stop by -” She stops, flailing for a name and coming up with nothing. “- what’s that Thai place with the noodles we liked - ?”

“I remember,” Christie says, and then, “You’re sure?”

“And get an order of those little spring rolls, too?” Neal likes those. She doubts he’ll touch anything, but it can’t hurt to try.

(Peter told her he’d tried to run to Kate. Peter said he’d tried to run into the fire after her, and after today Diana believes him.)

Peter is talking to Elizabeth. She knows this despite overhearing nothing; she sees it in the way he leans against the wall, sees her own weary heartfelt gratitude reflected in his eyes when he looks over at her. They each know just how much of whatever strength gets them through days like this comes from the voice on the other end of that phone.

(This is what Neal has lost.)

“I love you,” Christie says and Diana closes her eyes and lets the words sink in, a salve and a lifeline and an anchor. “I’ll be there soon, okay?”

Diana’s eyes hold Peter’s; his hand holds that phone tightly enough she’s afraid it’s going to crack. (It takes another heartbeat to realize she’s holding hers the same way, squeezing it until her fingers ache.)

After a moment she realizes Christie is waiting for a response, but all she can say is, “I don’t know what I’d do if I lost you.”


End file.
